Sad Ever After
by ScubaKanga
Summary: 'Let's just pretend that it's a normal day, I'm bored and you're annoyed. That's about right, isn't it' It's too late, and Sherlock and John have to have that last conversation. Character death. Not slash.
1. Chapter 1

**DI Lestrade**

'_Move!' _hissed Detective Inspector Lestrade, and he shoved several people out of the way as he raced to the police car. Two others were already setting off, and the police station was buzzing with adrenaline as people typed furiously and made knots in the air with their muttered conversations and orders. Sergeant Anderson and Donovan were shooting words at each other furiously, before Donovan pocketed her gun and set out of the door.

'Can we check the –'

'I'm getting readings, he's heading-'

'Have we got the officers over there alerted about-'

'We need someone over here now!'

'Don't-'

'Regulations 9.24 –'

Lestrade slammed shut the car door with unnecessary vigour, and fumbled with the ignition key. Cursing over and over, he finally slotted it in and after a lifetime the car groaned into life. Rain hurled itself against the vehicle, fighting against it.

On any other day he would have had his status immediately removed by the way he was driving, but right now Lestrade couldn't care less. First gear, foot flat on the floor, go, _go! _The landscape on either side couldn't move fast enough. The Inspector cursed cars, cursed all vehicles on the Earth.

He hated the moan above his head, a moan of despair that seemed to say again and again, _you're too late, you're too late, you're too late you'retoolateyou'retoolate…_

'Shut UP!' It wasn't often he lost his temper, but he could have sworn that ten more roads had been built in the way of his destination, the time it was taking to get there. As he slowed down to give other cars time to move to the side, he could hear the distant mourning of the other two sirens. The three wails twisted together like a rope until they were one continuous hopeless weeping.

Finally, _finally,_ he rounded a corner and there he could see the scene, the scene he had been so desperate to get to but now he wished he could be anywhere but there.

**Sergeant Anderson**

'You've got to go!'

'I haven't "got" to do anything!'

'How can you be so callous! I don't think you realise the urgency of the situation!'

'Don't be ridiculous! Of course I realise how dire this is.'

'I don't think you do. I think you don't want to go because…'

'What? Because what?'

'You've always hated him! I bet you'd love to see him afterwards.'

'Oh my god, how can you _say _that? Of course I- '

'That's what it is, isn't it? You always wanted to see him fail, I could see your expression every time he arrived. This is your perfect situation.'

'You disgust me.'

'Don't lie to me!'

'I'm not ly-'

'You ARE LYI-'

'I SAY I'M NOT, DAMMIT!'

'Go then.'

'What?'

'If you don't hate him, then go.'

'Look, we've been through this. I can't go – it's too late now. Look, the cars are already leaving.'

'Oh, my god, you, you….'

'What?'

'I can't believe you! Fine, I'll go!'

'Fine!'

'Just don't expect me to talk to you again if I can help it!'

'You think that's meant to make me feel bad?'

'Oh my god, you utter _monster-'_

'I thought you were going to go? Or are you just going to stand there and complain?'

'I am going, look, I can catch that second car, despite what you say…. Fine, sulk, I don't care, no-one should!'

**Mycroft Holmes**

I wonder if it's happened yet. It was inevitable, of course. Most regrettable. But one must move past these things.

**Jim Moriarty**

Oh, this'll really kill him, and I can't stop laughing.

**Mrs Hudson**

Oh, look at that, he's forgotten his revolver. I do worry about the things they get up to. Awfully dangerous. One of these days they'll get hurt.

Or worse.

**The Bird**

The bird watches. The bird sees. The bird wonders. The humans. Always a jumble, chaos. The bird didn't like the scene before it. It was grey. It was grey and rapidly turning black. It makes the bird sad. But it doesn't really understand sadness, it is a bird. It shouldn't be able to. Humans should, and they are all the worse for it.

Now the scene has turned. It is a series of black noises, ear-piercing images and hard smells of the end.

The bird spreads it's wings and glides away, flying through oblivious air that invites it and takes it away, and it swims through the air and away from the human chaos. But this time it drags a human soul along, showing it the way like a teacher.

**Sherlock Holmes**

It had to be raining, didn't it? Wasn't that the way things went in stories like this? Pouring rain. And it was raining. I thought it was mocking me by making it the perfect surrounding, the biggest cliché. But that was only part of what me and the weather knew. Because in scenes like this, we all know how they end.

The drops came in millions, swarming like an army, each drop breaking and dying its own separate death as a lonely soldier. I looked for the extra drop.

All alone. Surrounded. Another cliché. The darkness had wandered in and was leaning against every corner like an attacker waiting to strike. I hated it because I knew I couldn't fight darkness, and I hated losing.

After a time, I fell to my knees, noticing how wet the rain was making my face. And the water was warm. That didn't make sense. I hated this situation because I had to be a loser. And a loser is just another word for failure.

The pavement was cold, and my trousers were probably dirty now, but that was irrelevant and therefore unimportant.

Where we were felt like a bubble separated from the rest of the world, the place under the murkiest cloud, and other noises so typical of a London street slid round it and avoided seeing the truth. There were sounds of traffic, and a trio of sirens was rising from the faraway bustle. I almost hated the fact they were coming. Not now. I liked this silence.

Suddenly, I realised we were not alone after all. A bird sat nonchalantly on a windowsill, where it wouldn't get wet. I looked at it and thought of the dissected bird in my room, revealing the anatomy behind it. A flesh machine. I could do with another one.

I looked away, and when I glanced back the bird flew off, out of reach.

Staring back next to me, I locked eyes with him and then slowly, gently, became truly alone.

**Dr John Watson**

'It's too late.' I told him firmly and calmly, and to my surprise it didn't scare me to admit it. After Afghanistan I knew I was lucky, and ending now was ten times better than ending there.

'No, no, no it's not!' Sherlock regarded me with an air of confusion and worry I had never seen before. He stared helplessly at my shirt changing colour to red, not knowing what he should do.

'Of course it's not too late, don't say that, tell me what to do!'

'There's no point.'

'Tell me!'

'Sherlock-'

'No! Don't you dare say that! Tell me now! NOW!' His eyes flashed anger, but whether he was angry with me, or what had happened, or himself, I didn't know.

I felt a sudden urge to cry at his face, a mixture of hope and despair, and was surprised again. Because I was not sad about me, but about him. How could I leave him like this? I sighed, and this time my voice cracked a bit. 'Sherlock, I'm so sorry, it's too late.'

He saw how sure I was, and the hope finally slid from his face, along with the rain, but his eyes were the sky. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes,' and by now we were both crying, so uncharacteristic.

'Doesn't it hurt?'

'Does it matter now?'

A long silence.

'How can you be so calm? Aren't you afraid?'

I laughed, but the laughter shattered every tear into ten more. 'What is there to be afraid of? After Afghanistan, I've been living on borrowed time. Anyway, I'm not afraid because nothing bad will happen.'

His over-used look of curiosity took over, despite the situation. 'Really? What do you… what do you think happens?'

'I don't really know what happens next. Reincarnation? Perhaps I'll come back and we'll meet again, or perhaps I'll be a fly or a… a raindrop.' It sounded a bit cheesy, but neither of us noticed, 'Well, we'll meet again, anyhow.'

'Do you have to go?'

'Sherlock.'

'Why don't you stay?'

'You know I can't-'

'Do I?'

'You do.'

'Please. '

'Please what?'

'Stay.'

'Oh god, Sherlock, we've been through this!'

Another silence. Then he abruptly looked worried. 'I'm sorry.'

'For what?'

'Being such a bad friend.'

'What? No, you're not a bad friend.'

His eyes looked downcast and his face mirrored that of the storm above. 'Don't say that, I know I've been terrible.'

'You really haven't.'

'You don't have to-'

'Listen to me,' I feebly reached for his hand, but it was so weak that Sherlock didn't see and I gave up, 'You might have some bad habits. You play the violin at all sorts of ungodly hours, do crackpot experiments and then leave them all over the place, and can be so exasperating. But the truth is, you're still the best friend I could ever have.'

'Even though the head is still in the fridge?' I rolled my eyes and laughed again, laughed at the sky and the ridiculousness of everything.

'Even though the head is still in the fridge.' He saw my face and despite trying to stay serious, a smile cracked onto his face and the edges crawled upwards. For some time, we laughed at the memories arising around us, before I gasped at the renewed pain of the wound and the bitter truth came rushing back.

My clock was running out and I accepted that.

'So,' I said.

'So, ' he said.

'This is really it, huh?'

'Yes. Did you find your life to be of an acceptable standard?'

'It has been one _hell _of a good life,' I said vehemently, and I meant it.

'Nothing really left, is there?'

'Not really.' I had forgotten I was still crying, until a silence broken by choked breaths from Sherlock reminded me.

'Sherlock, I suppose I'd better say it now, I'm… I'm going. Goodb-'

'Don't say it!'

I was startled by the fury lacing his words. He deflated. 'Sorry, I know, but just… don't say it.'

The tears welled up anew in my eyes at his defeated yet resigned face, and he continued. 'Let's just pretend that it's a normal day, that I'm bored again and you're annoyed with something I've done. That's… that's about right, isn't it?'

'Y-yes,' I choked.

'And… and then Lestrade will appear, and tell us about an interesting case – a rarity these days. And I'll drag you off to the crime scene, and –'

'Amaze people with your deductions? Take Anderson down a peg or two.' He smiled at me.

'Yes, and then I'll have to go somewhere, and you stay behind. But I know… we know…. We'll see each other again later, and solve the case.'

'I can pretend that.'

'Good.'

There didn't seem to be anything left to say. All these emotional things suddenly coming out of the normally cold detective's mouth broke me down until I was a wreck.

Together, we watched the world survive, me lying on the ground. I felt the rain spatter on my face and smelt pizza from a bin nearby. I could hear London's odd song, the cars and the rain and the people causing an odd symphony of life.

I saw a bird sitting on a windowsill, but before I could take it in I suddenly realised the blackness had penetrated the corners of my vision and was growing, and growing…

I locked gazes with Sherlock, and his water-shedding eyes were the last thing I saw before the darkness snuck over my entire vision, and then there was nothing.

-_I might continue this and make it a story, as was my original plan. But after writing this, supposedly the first chapter, I might keep it as a oneshot. What do we think, people? Story or oneshot? _


	2. Shock

**DI Lestrade**

Damn. Lestrade cursed again. Why had he even hoped before? He was too late, as he had known yet refused to accept.

The strong rain still blurred the image, until it looked like a shifting scene hidden behind broken glass. As he scrambled out of the car, he knew there was no chance of catching the criminal now. He was long gone, and look what he'd left behind him.

Beside his hastily parked car another was already parked and the last was coming up behind him. When it stopped, he saw Donovan rush out of it, speaking into a walkie-talkie. What was the point? There was nothing that could be done, nothing left to be said.

For a moment Lestrade didn't move, didn't let himself come further forward as he observed the scene before him, one that he knew would haunt him with every shimmering dream he had.

Through the rain flashing out of the sky like ideas flying from imagination, he could see two figures in the road. It was a road with a dead end, so it was never used. There was a small alley leading off, and a bin next to the building.

One of the figures was John Watson. He was lying on the road calmly. He was dead.

The other figure was Sherlock Holmes. He was kneeling on the road, next to John. He was alive.

The detective was facing away from Lestrade, who finally started a reluctant walk towards them. His long brown coat was splayed out behind him and his head was bowed.

The world walked with Lestrade as he came next to Sherlock, and it walked in slow motion. Other police officers skidded round the scene as they searched for evidence. Now he could see the body's oblivious face, and he turned away, suddenly overwhelmed. This was John Watson. John Watson, Sherlock's first friend, Sherlock's only friend… gone.

Sherlock didn't seem to have noticed that anyone had arrived. He was still staring blankly at the ground beneath him. Water dripped from his hair, the curls almost gone, and ran down his face. And his face… his face showed nothing. Absolutely expressionless. Even the …corpse… showed more emotion. The Inspector thought briefly of how the man was a sociopath, and wondered how this death would affect him, _could _it affect him?

**Sergeant Donovan**

Sergeant Donovan was emerging from the police car when a voice began rippling words out of her walkie-talkie. It was Anderson.

Right now she couldn't be more angry with him. She knew that he had always harboured a dislike for Sherlock Holmes, right from the start. And she couldn't blame him. Sherlock had just waltzed into their lives with that confident smile, and instantly made all the police officers seem mediocre. After hours of scouring a crime scene, he'd arrive, take one look at the body and tell everyone the victim's life story. When he was proved right he'd exit the stage with that infuriating smug smile, leaving the others to clear everything up.

She knew many people would like nothing better than to see him trip up one day and make a mistake. Indeed, she herself had taken a strange delight in the fact that Sherlock Holmes was, if one looked closely, a loner.

Then John Watson entered the stage. For some unfathomable reason he could put up with that man, and became his flatmate. Ex-soldier, she heard. A doctor. The first time he tagged along to an investigation he had looked completely bewildered. Donovan wasn't surprised. Very few people could stay on Sherlock's wavelength for very long.

She tried to warn the Doctor away, but he hadn't listened and stayed with the detective, and now look what had happened.

But, of course, even though she wasn't fond of the world's only consulting detective, her job was to protect people, whoever that person was. When she had heard that those two were in trouble, her first instinct was to go and help. However, she had been busy on another case and asked Anderson to go.

_He said no._

Sally couldn't believe that Anderson couldn't look past his own dislike of the man and help. Lives were at stake. He was a callous, weak, monstrous, pathetic excuse for a human being. Right now she loathed him _so much, _she wasn't sure she ever wanted to see him again. Ever. If he had just agreed to go, they could have saved the outbreak of an argument, saved time, saved a life.

Sighing, she grabbed her walkie-talkie, and began the battle against the beast again.

**Jim Moriarty**

I watched idly out of the top window as the police began to arrive, always in a hurry, always hopeful. Buzzing around the scene like flies. They were so _stupid. _Not like us, Sherlock, I thought, never like us.

It was quite hilarious really. Sherlock Holmes could probably catch me right now in an instant, but he didn't. He just sat on the ground. How long before that became boring? Boring, like everything else. I hope the murder didn't make the detective _boring._ To be honest, I only did it because I was getting bored and wanted to start a bit of fun. He should join in.

Yes, this was hilarious, because Sherlock knew but didn't tell, and idiots never think to look up.

**DI Lestrade**

'Sherlock?' Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder uncertainly, noticing as he did that the detective was shivering. He wondered how long he'd been here, how late Lestrade had been.

For some seconds he got no response, then he heard a quiet shadow of a word escape the other's lips and fall to the ground. 'Lestrade.'

Not a question, not a demand, just a fact. A boring unnecessary fact.

The Detective Inspector looked around, and motioned some paramedics over with an orange shock blanket. They handed it to him and he turned back to Sherlock, who still hadn't moved. Try as he might, he couldn't seem to get the body out of his eyesight. It lingered, edging into the corners.

'Are you hurt, Sherlock?'

'No.'

Each word he uttered seemed to be clipped, as if the question completely bored him. Lestrade… wasn't confused exactly, he just didn't really know what to say. The orange blanket was getting wet in the rain. He looked at it contemplatively, then decided to use it.

'Here, have this. You're wet through.' He wrapped the blanket around the detective's shoulders, and the detective stiffened. Next, Lestrade crouched down beside him, placed his hands round the detective's shoulders and tried to lead him away from the body.

It was then that Sherlock finally looked up. He gave Lestrade a blazing look of fury and stood up suddenly, shrugging the blanket off his shoulders and letting it drop to the ground.

'I'm fine.' He said, and he sounded it. The Inspector knew this couldn't be true. This man had just seen his best friend _die, _and he was trying to pretend he was fine? Well, this was Sherlock. He hated feeling out of control.

Sherlock turned round and tried to walk away, but Lestrade caught his arm and stopped him. The man spun round furiously. '_What? _I said I was fine!'

'Sherlock!' Too harsh, too harsh, he berated himself, and began again softer, 'Sherlock, you're not fine. You're in shock.'

'I am _not _in shock! I'm fine!'

'Come on, that's obviously not true, come this way…'

'Lestrade! Let me go _now!'_

'I'm not stupid, Sherlock! You're not fine, so-'

'I am fine, dammit!'

'Sherlock.' Lestrade looked at him full on and finally the detective stopped struggling against the iron grip that held him, 'How can you say that? Can you put aside any pride for a minute and at least let the paramedics check you?'

Then he got a very strange look, almost an amused one, but it unnerved him. Outside the gaze, the rain didn't stop.

'Of course I can say that. It's just a normal day. Just…just a normal day. I'm fine.'

At these words Lestrade let out the exasperation gathering inside him at this ridiculous, stubborn argument, letting the lightning come after years of thunder. To hell with being gentle to people in shock.

'You are not fine. You are in shock. You will come this way. Now.'

The struggling began again, and Lestrade eventually pinned Sherlock's arms behind his back, not letting him move.

'Why won't you believe me, Lestrade?' The annoyance came out in hisses, and tailed off in a sort of despair. The walls were beginning to crumble.

'Because you're not telling the truth!'

'I SAY I AM!' Sherlock began getting angrier, angrier than Lestrade had seen him before. But he didn't have time to dwell on this because he was furious too, furious that the consulting detective refused to admit he was human.

'Ok, then,' Lestrade hissed, turning the man around until he was facing the corpse, '_Look!'_

The detective wouldn't look. He turned his head away.

'Look I say! Or maybe you can't? And you know why? Because it _hurts. _And that is why you are not fine, Sherlock, and why you should listen to me and follow my damn instructions!'

At long last Sherlock broke free and raced away, around a corner and out of sight.

**Sherlock Holmes**

I like this alley. It makes sense. It's narrow. It's dark. It smells of damp and rubbish. The walls are wet. I'm wet. Because it's raining. That makes sense.

Why couldn't the whole world make such sense? I usually love problems, but not if I can't work them out. Perhaps I should just live in this dark alley, in a place that I can understand.

I suppose I'm heading back to the flat. There is nothing for me to do here at the moment. I left Lestrade. I left Lestrade because I don't like him anymore. He made me look, and I didn't like doing that. He was right. It did hurt. I don't want him to be right.

That last memory, it was black. It won't be of any use to me in the future. It is irrelevant, unnecessary and unimportant. I will delete from my mind to make room for other things.

**Mrs Hudson**

I decided to make some tea. When in doubt, make tea, I always say. My mother always made us tea after a hard day.

I was contemplating this when Sherlock exploded through the door. He looked like he had had a hard day too. Perhaps I should get a cup of tea for him too.

He was soaking wet. I was worried by this. He could get ill. There was no sign of the doctor, but he was probably busy with something and coming back later.

'Hello, Sherlock. Busy day?' I said, standing in the doorway of my flat. He turned and looked at me with a strange vacant expression, as if he couldn't really see me.

Abruptly, he ran up the stairs and slammed the door hard. I sighed. He was evidently caught up in a case again. Ah well. Back to that kettle of mine.

-_OK, continued by popular demand, here is Chapter 2 of this story. But I warn you now, this was never meant to be a happy story._


	3. Denial

**DI Lestrade**

He began gently. No-one ever liked to break news like this, but someone had to do it. It had been less than three hours, but all through that time he had felt like an outsider to the situation. At the beginning, watching the two statues through the rain that was destroying the hope softly, loudly, too loud, too soft… And then Lestrade, standing in his clunky police costume looking so out of place.

Here, he felt unwanted again, an outsider intruding. Mrs Hudson was standing in her doorway, holding a mug of tea smiling at him obliviously. Oh god, why did he have to tell her?

'Listen,' and the despair knocked on the door to this scene, 'Perhaps I should come in.'

The landlady beamed. 'Excellent idea, Inspector. I have just made a kettle. Here, have a mug…. Do sit down, there you go, mind the knitting things…I'll just go and…' She bustled away to the kitchen, leaving Lestrade sitting there like a fool. Would it be so bad to just walk away now?

While she was there he wondered how to begin, rolling sentences around in his head and discarding them like rubbish.

I'm very sorry to tell you….. No, it didn't sound right. Perhaps something more formal and official.

I regret to inform you that your…. Well, that just sounded like he was talking about a loved one. Perhaps she didn't know the people who rented her flat so well after all. Just a way to get money.

Somehow this argument did nothing to lift Lestrade's mood. Worryingly, he felt much the same as he did aged 14 telling his volatile Maths teacher he hadn't done his homework. All right, the situation was slightly different, but the nerves were there.

'Here we are! Careful, it's hot!' Mrs Hudson trilled, entering the room once more. He took the mug and looked at her slightly morosely. She pulled a chair across from him and sat down.

'Now, what can I do for you, Inspector?'

'Well,' he said, trying not to spit out his heart as it beat in his mouth, 'You know…. I don't know if… know that Dr Joh-' he started coughing. She looked at him worriedly.

'Are you all right? Do you need a glass of water?' That was the kick to get it out. Just tell her! He stopped and made a motion that he was fine. He surveyed her before saying quickly, 'Mrs Hudson, I can't tell you how sorry I am to tell you that Dr John Watson has come to an untimely death and… and his funer…funeral is on Thursday.'

Tears began to pull themselves from her eyes, and as they trickled downwards they pulled her mouth down too, until she was crying.

Lestrade didn't know what else he could do, so he put on his shell, put down the mug and left the house, leaving the silence behind him.

**Sherlock Holmes**

So. I was in my flat. That was normal. I thought I had deleted the past memory from my mind altogether, and to help me I had to go somewhere I wouldn't think of it, because I didn't remember. Really, I didn't. Not a bit.

Quickly, I walked into my room. Immediately the familiarity made me feel better, which was strange because I hadn't realised I was sad – no, I didn't get sad. Really, I didn't.

My mind did the normal circumspection that I had long since lost control of. Everything in the room was brought to my notice, and notice it I did.

One skull – Yorick. Moved from sitting-room. Now on messy bed, not made in an unspecified amount of time. Various tubes, Bunsen burners and other science equipment thrown hastily in corner, to be used later. Papers from crimes – newspaper articles, notes, photos, etc. Everywhere. Pinned up on the wall, carpeting the floor. Unimportant.

Can hear cars outside. Time? Ten sixteen in the evening exactly. Can smell? Nothing of interest. State of self? Wet, cold, shivering. Why?

Don't remember. Really.

With that check over, I finally caught what I had been searching for without realising it. My violin was sitting half-hidden amongst discarded pieces of clothing I had not found the energy to put in the wash. Too boring.

I smiled and picked it up. The violin… my violin. It was the only thing that stopped my thoughts being so logical and I hated it yet loved it for it, because it taught me how to feel.

He didn't think I could play the violin. All he'd heard me do with it was pluck it like a chicken, but a sound's a sound and when the violin makes it, it means something. Well, now I thought about it, he had heard me play. It wasn't my fault if it was at three in the morning, when it was too early for him to appreciate the instrument's words.

I listened. I can't help it if that's when the Stradivarius chooses to speak.

Slowly, I lifted it, along with the bow, up to my chin, held it in one hand and gripped the bow in the other. Drops from my hair already started to dot the composer, that oddly-shaped bit of wood.

Soon enough the torrent of words came floating out like a waterfall in slow motion, swooping in flashes of gold and fighting against the other speeches, screaming into a harmony before collapsing into a whisper of dusk once again.

I asked it to carry on. Almost begged. Of course I never really beg. But almost. The soul of the melody shattered into a million places, cutting me up with it's shards before silence reigned once again.

Sighing, I dropped the objects and let them cascade to the floor. By now they were wet too, and I hadn't taken my coat off so I was still shivering.

_Shivering is good for your body because it makes you warmer…._

'_SHUT UP!' _

The room stared at me in surprise. To be honest I didn't know where that came from myself. Just my brain working normally, so why had it provoked such a reaction? I wasn't prone to strong emotions. I was a sociopath. Not possible for me to.

Confused, I sat on the bed, in the slant of darkness that grew in my room as it got later and later. Confusion. Not again.

After a long time sitting there the darkness claimed me too, and I stopped thinking in any way at all.

XXX

Bleurgh. Mornings. I hated getting up. Oh well, had to be done. Coffee would clear up the sleepiness, so first things first I went into the kitchen to make coffee.

Me and John had developed a system after a week of him trying to make coffee but not finding anything due to my entirely necessary experiments getting 'in the way.' Honestly. Who found it difficult to see what could be eaten and what should stay where it was?

So instead, we had come to an arrangement where him and me would make coffee every morning every other day. Today was my dad so I trudged to the coffee machine. Finding the vicinity decidedly bereft of coffee-making implements, I decided to search the sitting-room.

Just as I walked in my laptop beeped, the signal for a new email. Muttering no words in particular, I sat down to read it.

**INBOX: NEW EMAIL RECEIVED**

**TO: SHERLOCK HOLMES**

**FROM: UNKNOWN SENDER**

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I thought I'd email you to let you know what my situation is. I'm ready to restart the game, and I know you are too. Surely last night didn't mean anything, after all. We both know that you don't feel, so why don't you play with me some more? I am bored. Pretty please, Sherlock?_

_After all, I know where to find you._

_Regards,_

**SENTBOX: LAST EMAIL SENT**

**TO: **

**FROM: SHERLOCK HOLMES**

_I'm ready. _

_SH_

And I trudged back into the kitchen, having spotted the coffee machine on the sofa. Of course I was ready to start again. Why should last night make any difference? I didn't remember what had happened. Really.

Now, where had I put the mugs? Cupboard? No. Fridge?... I really needed to get rid of that head now. Freezer? Yes, there they were.

I made sure they weren't part of an experiment that would make us all horribly ill. Or rather, I hoped. Checking was too boring.

Click. Coffee done.

I sat down at the table and set the coffee down. For a second, I wondered what to do, already bored. I had almost made up my mind to get the paper from last week from somewhere before my eyes latched onto the two mugs on the table.

Two mugs.

Why did that seem wrong?

One quivering moment of nothing, and then the memory came crashing up, drowning the light, drowning the nonchalance, and dousing out the sleep that lingered.

Oh god, it was too overwhelming! I couldn't think. And I hated that. It couldn't be true. It wasn't true. It simply wasn't true.

I looked at the other mug, the one telling me all the grey lies. A long, thoughtful look. Then I swept my arm across like a wave and sent it flying into the cupboard door, where it broke and slid down, begging that it was sorry, it wasn't true, wasn't real, wasn't happening!

The coffee stuck to the door, stretching out it's legs longer and longer until they touched the floor and began to form feet.

Now it was quiet. Now I could get on with my day, my normal day.

No, it was no use. The lies had crept into my mind and now they wouldn't go away. Gently they seeped into my mind and turned my sight strange so I was seeing everything through a grey-blue filter, even though that wasn't possible because it contradicted the facts.

At least the thoughts had come gently, and now they could rest to let me decide when to start time again.

-_Right, it's me again! The story is continuing, and I remind you: this was never going to be happy. This chapter was written slightly more rushed and that is why it is slightly shorter. Thank you for all the reviews so far! They're amazing and really help. Sorry if updates are slow, I get really busy during the week. Right, onwards!_


	4. Anger

**-**_By the way, in this chapter and the next there will be a lot about religion, so beforehand can I say I don't mean to offend anyone by the topics brought up. _

**The Daily Telegraph, 12th September 2010.**

**Deaths**

**WATSON – **Dr John Howard died on the 8th September aged 30 years in a tragic accident. Former soldier who served in Afghanistan as an army doctor. Much loved brother, colleague and friend. Funeral Service at -, in London on Thursday 14th September at 3.30pm.

XX

Very few people went to John Watson's funeral. It wasn't that he didn't have many friends, it was that most people didn't want to have to go to something so wrong.

Sarah went. She cried and cried all the way through until it ended, when she retreated back to her house at a fast pace, not even bothering to hide the tears.

Lestrade went, but reluctantly so. Such a tragic affair, and he admitted that he had liked the good doctor. But he was a police officer, these things happened, and he had to learn to accept them. So accept them he did, taking off his hat, paying his respects and then wandering solemnly back to work.

Mrs Hudson went. She wore an expression of sadness and regret, and occasionally dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, but it seemed to apply the tears rather than get rid of them. She hadn't known the poor boy that well, but she knew he was a nice fellow and they had talked over cups of tea once in a while.

There were a couple of soldiers, also back from Afghanistan, who had known him and felt they should come and pay their respects too, but no-one knew how close the three had really been.

Stamford went. He stood through the whole thing looking awkward and like he didn't know quite where to look. Afterwards he sort of edged out of the scene and escaped to the world where happiness could infiltrate the air.

Sherlock went too, if only to force himself to believe that it was happening.

**Sherlock Holmes**

'I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me shall live, even though he dies. And whoever lives and believes in me shall never die.'

The priest's voice was monotonous, nonchalantly drilling into my mind like a woodpecker. He finished the religious sentence and I stared stoically at the ground as the coffin neared, closer and closer. I'd fished all the reactions out of my mind and locked them in a box. I would not lose my composure. I wouldn't. Just watch the grass, don't think.

I waited patiently for the interlude of grief to end before the priest began to drone again.

'For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, so that whoever believes in shall not perish but have eternal life.'

On and on about eternity. I wasn't a very religious person – none of the facts added up and therefore I did not believe them. I didn't understand why millions of people could have faith, even devote their lives to, something that had no conclusive evidence of existing. So religion still intrigued me. Not because I didn't believe it, but because I didn't understand it.

Heaven and Hell. That didn't make sense either. If this God was meant to be forgiving to everyone, how could he condemn so many people to eternal torture?

Oh, there was the coffin. Brown and quite an interesting shape. And inside it was my old flatmate.

A couple of reactions seeped out of my locked box. Had to shut it tighter.

The box was being blessed. What was the point? It wasn't going to change anything.

Someone spattered water on it, which wouldn't change anything either. I was beginning to get confused. A cloth was placed on the shell of souls, along with a Bible and a crucifix.

Dr John Watson, my old flatmate, colleague, doctor, blogger… friend. Before him the word was foreign. John, the man who agreed to stay with me, helped me on my cases, complained about my experiments, and wore the jumpers. Who had always been right behind me as the plot unfolded. Not this time.

The box had cracked, and the emotions trapped inside leaked out like silver air, and suddenly my composure was holding on to last straws of strength.

This didn't make sense. I wasn't meant to feel emotion: I was a sociopath, dammit. So why wasn't I acting like one?

Look at the grass, concentrate on the grass. Crystal clean. Crystal green. For a minute I found this ridiculously funny for no reason, and could barely contain my laughter. Suddenly I felt a gaze on me, and I glanced up to be caught in the beam of Lestrade's look. We held each other's eyes in our own for a long time, before I turned back down to survey the grass once more. I was getting bored already.

Urgh, this funeral was taking forever. I felt a sudden desperate need for the end of the ceremony, wanting to get away.

Liturgy. Sermon. Prayers. Hymns. Boooooored…

'Sherlock?'

'What?' I snapped my head up in surprise. Lestrade was next to me, and the rest of the congregation were all watching me.

'Do you want to start?'

Start? Start what? Oh, of course. This part. Where we all had to go up and be generally nice about the deceased. Well, it was more interesting than the rest of it.

'Don't worry, you don't have to do it yet, I'll start.' Apparently my silence had been taken as a hesitation. Stupid, everyone was so stupid!

Lestrade stepped up next to the six-foot hole that had been dug, and cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly. 'I… um, I haven't known Dr Watson for a long time, but he was good, loyal and enthusiastic.'

The rest was lost on me. Random praises from random people who evidently did not have a clue what to say. I was getting restless.

Then they turned to me. I strode up, confident in the black clothes I had refused to wear, instead choosing my normal attire.

But when I reached the edge all the words and phrases shimmered out of sight, out of mind. Instead there was a great gaping white silence for me to fill. As I searched for a place to start, I started talking without even planning to say what I did.

'You're… so stupid. You all are,' I said quietly, not making eye contact with anyone, but I could hear the murmur of commotion race around everyone's heads. I turned to the coffin, 'Even you. Especially you. You're. So. Stupid! _I hate you, I hate you!'_

And I broke away from that scene just like before, racing to the trees at the back of the huge graveyard and out of sight.

**Mycroft Holmes**

This situation was obviously worth it. I had had my doubts at first, seeing as Sherlock hadn't seemed to mind too much, but this made things certain.

I repositioned my umbrella in the ground as it dug in, listening to the distant murmurs of the sermon. I had come in case Sherlock did something stupid, which was a possibility. He had grown an obvious deep bond with that Watson chap, against my advice. I told him, but he didn't listen. Now look what had happened.

So I had decided to come and lurk at the end of the graveyard amongst the trees. On reflection, I probably should have sent an assistant to do it for me. Why had I decided to do it myself anyway? Brotherly affection, I suppose. Odd. I wasn't aware I had any. I was concerned for Sherlock, obviously, but affectionate? Definitely not.

Still, I was here in the cold and damp – for it had been raining the last few days – waiting for my brother to do something stupid.

He did always like a touch for the dramatic.

Sure enough, I could soon hear my brother's voice rise above the buzz of the scene like a voice clear above the crackle of a radio.

'-stupid! _I hate you!'_

Oh dear. Matters were worse than I had hoped. Why were things never simple with Sherlock?

Footsteps muffled by the soft ground came padding nearer like a heartbeat getting stronger. Eventually my brother appeared in the small clearing surrounded by the sky of trees. He looked up and saw me, and wasn't even surprised.

I observed him quickly. Wearing normal outfit – semi-casual suit and long coat, which I thought he had got almost subconsciously, because it was dramatic. At first glance he appeared fine, but I knew him better and could see that he had a very thin grasp on his self-control. The death had hurt him.

Now I had to get him to accept it.

'What is it now, Mycroft?' he said bitterly, putting his hands in his pockets, 'It must be important if you forced yourself to actually come out for the occasion. I would have thought an assistant would suffice.'

'You are childish.'

That made him look up. 'Oh, is this just a let's-yell-at-Sherlock session? If so, I've really got places I need to be.' He turned away, to the barricade of wood as a sign that he would leave at any minute. I didn't doubt it either.

'Don't be ridiculous,' I told him sharply, 'You need to pull yourself together. And don't – _look at me – _don't even try to begin with the whole "I'm fine" façade. You honestly think I can't tell?'

'Shut up, Mycroft. I don't need you, I don't need anyone! Everyone keeps assuming I'm a wreck, and I'm not!' Sherlock snapped, gaining power like a car speeding, 'I'm completely OK! Why does everybody have to crowd me! I'm… I'm…fine.'

My brother was insufferable sometimes.

'Sherlock,' I said in my most authoritive tone, 'You will see sense. You will accept that John Watson is not coming back because he is dea-'

'_Shut up!'_ he hissed, spinning around to face me.

I was getting somewhere.

'Go back to the grave… see, the funeral party are leaving.' He sighed and looked to the sky in annoyance.

'God, it's just like Lestrade all over again.'

But I knew I had convinced him. We brothers are funny like that. So, not wanting to stay in this frankly unpleasant clearing, in a field of dead bodies, I wandered off, knowing that I shouldn't say goodbye.

**Sherlock Holmes**

I hated Mycroft. I hated him even more when he was right.

I was standing in front of the fresh grave, and I placed my eyesight on the stone when my eyes wouldn't willingly look.

_R.I.P_

_John Howard Watson_

_Died 8__th__ September 2010 aged 30 years_

"_The Lord hath given him rest from all his enemies."_

I repeated the phrase in my mind, seeing it from every angle in a strange sense of awe.

It struck me I should talk.

To start with I was planning to kneel, but in a wave of some peculiar emotion I couldn't quite place I sort of fell to my knees instead, well aware of what was just six feet away but I could never reach again.

Six feet separating him from the world for eternity, separating him from me.

How could he?

'John,' I began awkwardly, 'Um… hi. I don't know if you can hear me –who am I kidding, of course you can't, because you're _dead!' _a soft chuckle escaped me, but it sounded more like a growl, 'Dead, dead, dead! You left me, you bastard! I hate you! How can you be so cruel? I can't _believe _you!'

Without even noticing, I had leapt to my feet and now I couldn't put a stop to the fury bubbling out of me. He _left. _He _left. _God, he was an idiot. A stupid, cruel idiot, and I hated him.

'Well, you know what? I won't even miss you! Not a bit! Not now I know what you're like! How could you do this to me? _How?_'

I kicked the grave hard, so hard my foot reverberated pain, and I abruptly felt a need to leave. Go. Anywhere but there.

_Dammit, what had I done_? I ran out of the graveyard, back into the peaceful normality of London. Past the shops, past the gardens, past the offices and almost past the church.

-_Ta-da! This chapter came slightly early because I suddenly had a lot of spare time. Thanks for all the reviews! And all the people who have favourite/alerted etc. I warn again that next chapter there's a lot about religion and I don't mean to offend anyone by it. Right, onwards once more!_


	5. Bargaining

_-Chapter best served listening to 'October' by Evanescence. That's what I was doing when I wrote this, anyway._

_XX_

**Sherlock Holmes**

Oh damn. What the hell had I done? Standing there and yelling at a grave, yelling such terrible things. How could I blame John for getting shot? It was my fault, all my fault. I hated to admit so badly, loathed to think I could go wrong. But I did, and now what sort of pathetic person was I?

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

The words melted and mixed with everything inside my head, because this time they were directed at me. And oh god, it's true! I know! It's true! I'm so stupid, behind the deductions and the logic, just a shell, a white, meaningless fog.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Yes, I know, all right? Do I have to keep hearing the words when I admit it? I'm stupid, I'm a terrible person. It's all my fault, all my fault. It's my fault John left me. Go on, pile the blame on me, I deserve it. John died because he wanted to get away from me, that must be it.

I mean, who would want to stay with me? I'm a sociopath. I rarely praise anyone. In fact, I spend more time insulting the people who try to bear me. Arrogant, boastful, cold, mocking, total disregard for anyone else, fool. No wonder he left. God, I've never hated myself half as much as I do now.

_Then again, _a horrible little voice in my head mutters, _have you ever hated yourself before at all?_

Dammit! I know! Shut up! Just, just shut up!

Please…. I'm sorry. There, that's what everyone wants, isn't it? For me to be sorry and to mean it. And I am, okay? I'm damn sorry.

There has to be some way I can make it up. I'm breaking through the barriers I have put up between me and the world. Tell me what to do, I'll do it. I'm so tired, I can't be bothered to fight anymore.

I give up.

Use me like a puppet, just stop this torture and… give me John back.

Then I see the church, so tall it's holding up the sky like a guard holding back the gate crashers.

**Sergeant Anderson**

Anderson had always hated church services. He never went on Sunday. In his opinion, prayer shouldn't be scheduled. So, he went to the church whenever he felt like it.

Not that he wasn't religious. He was Christian, but he felt that when it came to Sundays, he had to go his own way. Also, even though he knew it was wrong to think so, he felt a bit embarrassed at the idea of going to church with everyone else. It didn't seem…. Well… manly enough. It was ridiculous, and terrible, but that was how he thought.

And so it came to be that he was in church on Thursday 14th September at 4.45pm in a corner, wondering quietly what to pray.

That man John Watson had been killed. Anderson had never really known what to make of him. Overall, he felt he shouldn't like him because he was friends with that ridiculously annoying psychopath, Sherlock Holmes. However, there was something irritatingly likeable about the doctor. He couldn't quite place it… just… well, never mind, it didn't matter now.

Was he sad John Watson was dead? He couldn't really say. Anderson supposed he'd never really expected him to die. When he was ordered to go and help Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, he'd refused because he thought it wasn't that serious, and, well, he had sort of hoped if he was late something would go wrong and the 'consulting detective' would have made a mistake.

And now the doctor was dead. Obviously it wasn't Anderson's fault, I mean, he hadn't gone, but Sally had. No damage done.

Apart from the fact Sally hated him now. How was he meant to know? She was overreacting…

He'd tried to contact her – email, text, phone calls – but she refused to reply. Unfortunately, it seemed she had meant what she had said in the argument they had had before she left instead of him.

Bang, footstep, footstep.

Anderson looked round as he heard loud, fast footsteps enter and echo around the church, splintering the silence in the grand building, and was surprised to see Sherlock Holmes enter, looking dishevelled and tired. But what shocked him most was the earnest look of total despair distorting his features. And he was almost running.

There was no-one else in the church but those two, (and Anderson supposed the priest was lurking somewhere), and it seemed the detective hadn't seen Anderson.

After Sherlock rushed in he stopped himself, breathing loudly, and looked around like he was seeing the world for the first time, staring at the ornate ceiling, the stained glass windows, and finally the altar. He started to follow his gaze to the front, the footsteps starting again like a ticking clock.

Anderson hadn't supposed the detective was religious at all. It just didn't sound right. But here he was.

When Sherlock was at the altar he fell to his knees and the sergeant could swear he heard him mutter 'I'm sorry!', but that would be so uncharacteristic he must have been mistaken.

For a long time the man kneeled there, shaking his head and muttering the edges of invented prayers, frequently looking up to gaze at the cross with a strange look of awe.

On any other day Anderson would have said Sherlock Holmes had gone truly mad, but for some reason it didn't feel like that. John had died, but he hadn't thought that would mean anything to a sociopath. However, watching this odd spectacle, he felt that he was intruding on something personal and much deeper than he could have imagined.

He had never thought a machine could have depths, but there you go.

Anderson decided to leave, and attempted to make his way to the exit quietly. But when he was there the detective turned round and glimpsed him leaving just as he saw the priest come out the back of the church.

**The Priest**

When I came out of the door at the back of God's house the first thing I saw was a young man, possibly late twenties, kneeling before the altar and praying with a heartbroken face. I was instantly saddened because it was obvious he was in mourning. He didn't deserve this pain so young. But it was God's choice, I suppose, so we must accept it.

This man needed reassurance and guidance, so I was naturally there to give it to him. Too many times I had had to comfort those in the darkness.

He had curly brown hair and wore a long coat. As I neared I could see he had grey eyes and was shaking slightly, even if he did not seem that he was about to cry.

'Son,' I murmured gently, and he suddenly turned round to the back of the church before facing me.

'You must be the priest,' he said, his voice dispassionate, and his face had turned to a blank canvas, so blank it broke my heart to see it.

I extended my hand to him. 'Come,' I said, 'Will you come and talk with me?'

For a minute I thought he would refuse, but he suddenly gained a look of resignment and took my hand, standing up and following like a lamb. We walked in silence some moments, but as he stared at the ground he abruptly asked, quietly, 'Tell me, Father.' It wasn't a demand, it was a request.

I knew exactly what he meant. We walked into a room at the back and I sat him down at a table, and me as well. I pulled out the rosary around my neck, indicating the cross.

'Jesus Christ was nailed to the cross, and he died for us, for our sins.'

He looked at the rosary for some time, and his face creased in memory of something. 'For our sins…' he muttered.

We sat there for a long time as he seemed to go through a path of thoughts in his mind and the sunlight filtered through the window like water. I was content to wait. I knew he was troubled, and willing to help without intruding.

Finally he looked at me and said, 'I… Father… I have sinned. I've done wrong,' and his eyes were filled with innocence and suffering. I took his hand and he nearly pulled away, but then he accepted it.

'Will I… will I go to Hell?'

'Not if you're sorry. God forgives those who repent for their sins.'

'But… I don't even know if I believe in God. I thought that was one of the ten rules. To believe in God.'

'Ten Commandments,' I corrected gently, but he appeared somewhat annoyed at the mistake. 'You can be forgiven anyway. Come, say a prayer with me.'

'A prayer?'

'Yes. Can you repeat after me? Our father..'

'Our father…'

'…who art in heaven…'

'…who art in heaven…'

'…Hallowed be thy name…'

'….Hallowed be thy name…'

And I led him through until we had reached the end. When we finished he looked relieved, if not happy. I hoped I had, to some extent at least, made him feel better. Then he spoke again.

'Can you talk to him?' I smiled sadly.

'We can all talk to God. He listens to everyone.'

'I told him I was sorry, but I don't think he heard.'

I frowned slightly. 'Why not?'

'I shouldn't expect him to listen to someone like me.' I didn't know this man, or what had happened, but he had broken my heart many times already with his expressions and the things he said.

'Son,' I told him fervently, 'God does not discriminate. He listens to everyone. He has heard what you said.'

He looked at me. 'Perhaps,' he said, 'but I wasn't talking to God.'

**Jim Moriarty**

The plan was nearly in action. It was perfect. A way to get things started. All I was waiting for was for Sherlock to come back to his flat. I would look out for him from this window, and as soon as he appeared I would signal to my agents.

Timing was crucial. I couldn't signal a second too late or a second too soon. Sherlock could not get into his flat. I needed him. I was bored. And it was time to play.

He was being far too boring at the minute. I was worried he was more attached to that doctor man than I had supposed, and he was about to go into the long-winded and entirely unnecessary process of mourning. That wouldn't be fun.

I wanted him to play the game.

Suddenly, I saw him come round the corner of the street. It was getting late and dark was closing in, but I recognised him. I could see him perfectly.

And that's why I hesitated.

I damn hesitated, and he got to his flat just as I made the signal. But it was too late, the door closed behind him and I began to swear like a madman.

Why had I hesitated? Why? Okay, so he had looked sad, which was mildly confusing, but why had it made me hesitate? It wasn't like, for a split-second, I had felt, I don't know, what's the word… _sorry, _or anything.

That was unthinkable. Must just have been a slight mistake. Oh hell, I hated mistakes.

-_Right, yes, I finished the chapter! Yay! I don't know if this one went as well, it was hard to write a submissive Sherlock_ _and still keep him vaguely in character, I don't know how well it went. Took a lot longer to write this than I had planned, but the chapter is finished now and I can allow myself to worry about the pile of homework looming ever more ominously. Thanks for all the reviews and I am in awe of the number of people who have favourited/alerted this story._

_Onwards!_


	6. Depression

**Sherlock Holmes**

I went into the flat. I didn't storm in, I didn't wander. I just – went in.

Mrs Hudson's door was shut and the lights near the staircase were out. I went upstairs and opened the door.

I made sure to close the door and hang up my coat before I completely broke down, sliding to the ground with my hands on my head.

Hell. HELL. Oh my god, he was dead, dead, John was dead, he wasn't thinking, or breathing, he didn't care about me anymore, I was all alone and no-one understood, how could they, they didn't know what it was like, to feel so completely and utterly empty and alone…

Before I even saw it I realised one of John's jumpers was on the floor at my feet. Recoiling as if it were a venomous snake, I also spotted his gun on a table near a chair. A chair with his computer on it.

John's computer, John's jumpers, his gun, I was surrounded by John, and it was killing me. I sprang up feeling as if I were choking in the stifling _John-ness _in the room. Not bearing to look at it, I turned just to lock eyes on his jacket hanging next to my coat.

Dammit, I couldn't bear that, I couldn't bear it! He was _everywhere. _Everywhere I looked I was fenced in by something of his, not standing to go past or even near it.

Not able to take even one breath, too terrified to believe it was possible, I scrabbled for the door handle frozen above me, but just as I reached it I let go with a hopeless gasp and closed my eyes.

Got to get rid of it. Of everything. Scour the place of anything to do with John Watson. Scrape the place clean so it's like he never existed. Just – anything to stop me remembering so vividly. If there are no reminders, perhaps the memory will rip, tear and fade into a sepia photograph in the darkest scrapbook. Or simply burn away.

After eternity had come and whispered away, I got up and walked to a cupboard that had boxes in it, and all the while I looked straight forward.

First I stuffed in all the clothes of his I could see – jumpers, jackets, shoes next to the door, all I could find.

Then I grabbed his gun, his books and laptop, absolutely anything belonging to him.

Next I took out my two mobile phones, the pink one and my original one, and went to the inbox. Deleting the messages from him almost rhythmically.

Inbox: Message from John: Deleted

Inbox: Message from John: Deleted.

On and on and on. Until the last one, that was. I stared at it as if it were alien technology.

**MESSAGE FROM JOHN**

_Will be back in ten minutes._

In a flurry of silence I merely turned the phone off and set it aside.

Finally I put the boxes in John's room as quickly as I could, found the key and locked the door, effectively shutting his death out from my life.

Which didn't explain why I still felt so deafeningly alone.

Trying to understand, I sat on the floor and felt like the world could come crashing down around me and I'd just watch the screams, sitting here.

Just trying to understand.

**DI Lestrade**

Lestrade hovered outside the door of 221B Baker Street. After what happened at the funeral he had realised that Sherlock was really a lot closer to John than he had thought, even though he had seen they were good friends even then.

Now he was contemplating whether or not to check up on Sherlock. He couldn't be having a good time. Perhaps he needed some company… Recently this building was becoming a place of dread for him (more so than before, and it had petrified him then), an omen of bad news.

Gingerly, he grabbed the door handle as if it was a grenade liable to explode at any moment, and twisted, not at all surprised to find it unlocked.

Inside it was dark, and he trudged slowly up the stairs.

He almost knocked on the door, but he suddenly heard a thump and a yell of frustration from within which made him drop his hand back into his pocket and walk down the stairs.

**Mrs Hudson**

Tea doesn't cure grief.

**Sherlock Holmes**

Go away. Leave me alone.

How can some people laugh when the leaves on trees are turning black?

How can some people look pitying when they can't sympathise?

How can the rest tell me it will be better eventually when the wound won't heal if it's in my mind?

No-one understands what this feels like, me included. I'm just sitting on a ledge, watching life go by and my shell going through it when there's no-one inside it.

Day One

It was ridiculously tempting. It looks so peaceful and welcoming. I had committed so many sins, why not add another to the list and fall prey to temptation? It would be –so easy.

I stared at the bottle in awe. However, it wasn't the bottle that interested me, but the contents.

Cocaine. The word just rolled off the tongue and tasted deliciously evil as it did. Couldn't this be my compensation for the broken edges of my life? Something to blend them together in my mind like a veil hiding it from view. Please, just a tiny dose. Just enough to numb the spikes.

Who was I even begging to? No, don't say that, I hate every answer.

Cocaine. Cooooocaine. It was terrible, it was disgusting, it was unhealthy… it was _wonderful._

I picked up the bottle reverently.

This was it! The solution! It would use my fear to scare all my troubles away, taking that one with it.

I unscrewed the bottle top.

_Will be back in ten minutes._

I hurled the bottle at the wall, where it put on an impersonation of the cup of coffee that had ended in the kitchen.

It was funny. I didn't laugh. Yes, the cocaine was the easy solution, but I always did things the hard way.

Day Two

'You Ok, mate?'

'I'm fine.'

'You sure – '

'I'm fine already!'

'Rough day?'

'You… you could say that.'

'Don't worry, we've all been there.'

'Have we.'

'What can I get you then?'

'What's the strongest drink you've got?'

'It'll be on the house.'

'Oh, and could you get two? I, um, have a friend with me?'

'I'm sure you do. You can come back for more, don't worry.'

'I don't –'

'Sorry?'

'Nothing.'

XXX

'Listen mate, I gotta boot you out now, we're closing. Sorry.'

'I underzztand…'

'Want some help? Here we go, mind the table, and out the door.'

'Whooda thunk it? Whooda thunk it?'

'Thu.. err, thought what, mate?'

'Th – Thanks.'

'All in a day's work.'

'I've gotta… gotta go now..'

'Hey – '

'Wha?'

'Be careful, mate. And I'm sorry for whatever happened.'

'I don talk bout that…. Don wanno.'

'I understand exactly what you mean.'

'Duz an… one underzztand?'

'Not really.'

'Bye.'

'Bye.'

Day Three

My world hurt, my life hurt, but most importantly: my head hurt.

Oh, what had I done? Flashes of remembrance flitted by, but I could fill in the gaps pretty easily. I had gone out and got ridiculously drunk at some pub and stumbled into the flat at some ungodly hour. I wondered if Mrs Hudson had heard me clomping about my room like an elephant.

I knew perfectly well what was happening, and that made it ten times worse to experience. I was sinking – if there was anywhere left to sink – and dying slowly. I was coming undone.

Yet I couldn't find the energy to care. Let me be.

What I didn't know was whether I had hit rock bottom yet. The case was interesting in a morbid, detached way. Was there anywhere left to go? It felt like any light had long since cried itself away.

Instead there were just the different shades of black singing a haunting tune that adorned my ears and spun round my head like a crown of thorns.

Of course, there was light coming in through the window, but that was empty light, not really there. To save it any trouble I pulled the blinds down.

Leave me to my world of indifferent shapes, that come and go at their own speed. To my numbers and figures, that never die. I was becoming victim to my thoughts and officially leaving reality, and to tell you the truth?

I welcomed it with open arms.

Paracetamol was a painkiller, but it only killed findable pain. Thoughts had no place, I could become lost in their ghosts, never to be seen again.

But before I got there I was still on my ledge, watching my outside layer go about the world in its self-destructive way.

Did it even matter? Did anything matter? How brilliant it would be not to care, not to give a single damn about anything. I wished I could go back to that. But it seems that when it leaves, it leaves for good.

Day Four

There was nothing of interest in the world at all. Nothing. Everything was meaningless and dull, so _boring. _Everyone rushed around, captive in their own tiny insignificant worlds, when it all came to nothing anyway. Why even bother? What if the entire human race just let go of their lives and took a look in the right mirror?

Insignificant conversations, pointless belongings, meaningless jobs, worthless buildings. This was what our world was crammed with, packing together to make the sun we revolved around.

I was sick of every bit of it.

Never would there be anything useful for me, for anyone. Even achieving success is futile because one day you'll die and just be a name on a stone and a memory that would eventually die too.

Perhaps everyone knew. Perhaps they just didn't let themselves think about it because it would make them feel… feel… well, feel like me.

And no-one would want that. It was like being the sole person carrying every single trouble on the world: every pain, every tear, every argument. Like no-one else could see me, or cared that one day I'd break and the trouble would come pouring out from every corner.

Why aren't I dead too? I deserve it. I deserve it because I've had to bear so much, I deserve it because I've been so bad.

How can anyone feel this lost, alone and misunderstood and not collapse? I marvelled at the fact my shell hadn't completely died yet as I observed it.

**Harry Watson**

Oh my god. It's all over. I seriously can't go on.

My brother. My _brother. _The only person who sympathised with me to at least some extent. It's like I was on a wild horse and he was the reins. Now the rope has gone and I'm out of control.

Clara left. I'm obviously not good enough. I was never good enough for anyone: not my parents, not my friends, not my partner. Look what's happened to my life. Everyone leaves me behind.

I couldn't bear to go to the funeral. The thought hurt too much.

Perhaps I should have gone. Perhaps by some miraculous method, the funeral would have changed me in a way that meant I wouldn't be sitting here alone with a bottle of vodka that was so nearly empty.

It nearly slipped out of my hands as I thought and I held it more firmly as I desperately drunk the last mouthful, feeling the black edges slip in, and then me slipping away from the bottle as the black became everything.

-_SO MUCH DEPRESSION! Lol. It was kinda necessary for a chapter titled 'Depression' though. I have been at the computer typing for far too long, getting stuck on this chapter. Sorry if you're all sick of angst by now, it is kind of the focus of the story. Don't worry, things will get better. Thank you all for the reviews and the people who have favourited/alerted the story._


	7. Testing

You can't go up until you hit rock bottom. But when you do hit it it's the only way to go.

XXX

Light is an abstract term. It can mean so many things at once.

For the scientist, it means an electromagnetic radiation that has a wavelength ranging from violet to red angstroms and may be perceived by the human eye.

For the musician, it can mean that push that lets them pick up their instrument and play again after years of silence.

For the actor, it can mean basking in the light, to be centre stage once again, to pick up the play once more and re-enter the stage.

Sometimes it's just a matter of finding the light. And sometimes you don't need the sun at all. Sometimes you can be living in the light when all around there's a curtain of darkness. Sometimes the light is when someone understands. Because we're all waiting for the day that the world will light up for just a second, just for you, in its final bow.

And then the light makes room for you.

XXX

'_Do you want to get a Thai takeaway later?' John called from the kitchen. I was playing the violin in the sitting-room, but when I looked down to see it I realised it was shattered to splinters, so I let the wood splinters fall through my hand and sat down. _

'_Sure, why not?' I replied. Turning around, I saw John was behind me, and we were in front of the takeaway house. He frowned at me._

'_We should probably get going if it will be this cold all spring,' he said to me, indicating the leaves falling around us that turned to snow as they danced through the air. I laughed, and looked up at the sky only to notice it was falling down. _

_We started running out of a door, out of a McDonalds, I noticed, and found it hilarious that all the waiters were identical. Sitting down, I curled in a ball._

'_Did you even try to, at all?' I yelled furiously at my companion. He smiled at me and told me no, before he pulled a street out of his pocket and laid it down on the ground. Getting up, I sighed and told him we should run._

'_Why?' he looked at me curiously, 'we are running.' I realised he was right. We were running as fast as we could because people were chasing us, and I knew exactly who. _

'_Don't!' someone yelled, but I had forgotten my name. I turned to John again._

'_The Thai…. It wanted to kill you.' He sighed and put his hands in his pockets, stopping thought he kept up with me, and I was still running. _

'_You can't keep pretending. He DID kill me. Accept it!' He took me to a table with two chairs and a bottle of champagne. Then he took out a pack of cards from his pocket._

'_Want to play cards?' He smiled and started laying them out. I backed away._

'_How – how can you be dead?' I stuttered. He laughed as if I had told him a hilarious joke and swept the cards into a pile again, showing them to me one by one. _

'_It makes sense,' he said, 'Here are your victims.' On each card was a picture of a brutally mangled body, every one laced with blood. I gaped but some strength stopped me looking away. On the last card was a picture of John, bullet-hole in chest, splayed out on the ground. _

'_You killed me.' _

'_No!' I gasped, and ran in the other direction, towards the sounds of the people chasing us. When I got to them, I fell to the floor and began 'Over there… there's a- a madman! He's…'_

_I looked up to see the face of John Watson smiling down at me. Recoiling in horror, I turned to the other person to see he was John Watson too! This wasn't right, this wasn't right!_

'_I bet he only taught you how to play cards!' one shouted, before disintegrating into a blackness that lingered. The other frowned in confusion._

'_I don't really know what's going on,' he admitted. I smiled._

'_Really? Good, maybe you can help me.' _

'_I don't think so,' he said, and to illustrate his point he showed me a bullet-hole in his chest. Suddenly out of the blackness came thousands of bullets that all struck him, shooting him a thousand times. He grinned at me. _

'_I was bored.' He told me, 'It's your turn next time.'_

Jim Moriarty woke up.

XXX

10th October 2010

**Sherlock Holmes**

I don't have emotions. I just don't. Just doesn't happen. Full stop, end of story, boring, move on.

So why did I keep need to reminding myself that?I'm not stupid. Far from it.

However, I was getting sick of the fact that my mind refused to agree and kept making the same mistakes of caring against my will. For a while I had allowed it to be like that – I was in too dark a hole to care. I hit every ceiling but never the sky. Wondered what the point of living was if in the end you'll die.

Occasionally my mind relented a little to let me do something, and those times became my high after an eternity of lows.

I played with Moriarty – to remind myself and my mind that people aren't sad when they're playing a game. We only played via technology so far though. I was worried that would get boring, and I'm sure Moriarty would agree.

So at the minute I was fighting two battles, or playing two games. One against a criminal mastermind, but a truly difficult one against my mind.

And so help me if I wasn't going to win them.

The step.

Go back.

My mind knew exactly where I meant. I wanted to know if it didn't hurt so much anymore.

I walked to the door, pulled on my coat and flung on my scarf. I only glanced towards his bedroom door once before I slammed the flat shut behind me.

I noticed it was getting colder as autumn took the spotlight for snatched amounts of time. People hurried by a little faster, and often not all the light could come from the sun. However, finally it was a day where it wasn't going to rain. The clouds had dried up and fallen from the sky like snow among the leaves.

Walking. It got pretty boring. I didn't see the joy in it really. Going somewhere just to come straight back without doing anything. What did people see in it?

I passed a Thai takeaway and shivered slightly as I got closer. Suddenly I was concentrating harder than ever on the direction I was going even though I knew the complete city of London inside out.

Go down this road.

Walk past the hedges of the posh houses.

Slow down a minute outside the graveyard.

Then start to run.

Turn the corner.

And remember.

I was there. I… was there. And it wasn't raining. Apart from that, it was the same. Same overflowing bin, same dark alley leading off, same… same bird.

The bird looked at me and I looked at the bird. I noticed it was perched higher up than when I had seen it last time. We tied glances like a ribbon between us for two long seconds, before I told myself to stop getting distracted by random birds and concentrate.

The bird fluttered up to the next window sill. I folded down to the ground.

Lightning bolts of memory cracked through my sky and for a second I was hopelessly lost again. I gave a strangled gasp.

No! Don't think like that! I knew what I had to do, and I was going to break every barrier like a flood to do it.

I embraced the memories.

'_That… was the craziest thing I have ever done!' John laughed between gasps for air. I gave an elated laugh – I loved the adrenaline of action._

'_And you invaded Afghanistan!' _

_We glanced at each other for a second and then broke the glance, splitting into laughter. _

_XXX_

'_WHAT ARE YOU DOING?' my flatmate yelled, bursting into the room. I sighed slightly. Couldn't he see? I was. So. Bored._

'_Bored!' I yelled, firing another shot into the wall. Almost a perfect smiley face._

'_What?'_

'_Bored!' I repeated. He came over and grabbed the gun off me, putting it on a table out of reach. I put my head back on the sofa. What was I meant to do now?_

_XXX_

'_Hang on, I don't even know your name yet. We barely know each other.' He pointed out. I remembered he couldn't learn as easily. I came back around the door of the lab._

'_I know you're an army doctor recently returned from Afghanistan due to being shot in the leg. You see a therapist about your limp, which she's right, is psychosomatic. I know your brother is an alcoholic recently split up. The address is 221B Baker Street, and the name,' I started back around the door, 'is Sherlock Holmes.'_

_XXX_

'You all right, mate?' I opened my eyes. A man dressed in MacDonald's waiter's outfit was taking out the rubbish. He was about 19 and bulged. He looked at me sitting in the road with a worried expression.

'What does it look like?' I demanded. He shrugged.

'Um…. No?' he offered.

'Incorrect.'

'Um… so why are you… do you… ok… um, bye…' he rambled as I got up and walked away.

I had just seen a flash of black in the dark alley, and I knew exactly who it was. And I knew exactly why I was waiting.

I ignored the MacDonald man and the flash of black. Right now I needed nothing.

As I wandered leisurely back to the house, I felt my head become a little bit clearer, if only a little bit. Finally I was on the right road.

My phone suddenly beeped: new message. I took it out. I was pretty proud I had turned it on – it had been off for weeks.

**NEW MESSAGE FROM: UNKNOWN SENDER**

_Hey, hey, what was that? I thought we were playing the game? You know you have to join in to play. Don't ignore me._

_M_

I put the phone away.

**Sergeant Donovan**

She stood in front of the grave awkwardly: what on earth was she supposed to do? Glancing at her watch for the thousandth time, she wondered why she was even here.

_John Watson_

He… she didn't know him that well, she should just go…

'_The Lord hath given him rest from all his enemies.'_

Well, she had to say something! Sally had come because she wanted to know how this would change the story… would change Sherlock. She needed to see the grave… to hate Anderson even more.

It was working.

Once again she looked at her watch, and realised she only had a minute.

'You know,' she blurted out, 'You were a… pretty good guy.'

And she left.

-_OK, so halfway through writing this chapter a whole load of stuff happened so when I carried on writing it I had barely any time left so sorry if it's a bit rushed. Two chapters left by the way, it's not a terribly long story. Thanks so much for all the great reviews and the people who alerted/favourited this story!_


	8. Acceptance

5th November 2010, 9.00 pm

A tall silhouette walked down an alley. In the background fireworks tattooed the sky like scars, like lightning.

The alley was dark. It was cold. It was wet. It was merely a huge shadow with nothing to reflect in darkness. Insignificant in the world, and to everyone but that silhouette, irrelevant. But the silhouette was the same. He was cold, and wet too. Right now, this was where he belonged. Somewhere hidden.

At the end of the shadow there were occasional snatches of talking and laughter as children went by, play-fighting with glow sticks, their parents following behind at a slower speed. Simply glances of outside, a different world to the nightfall.

He listened for some seconds, then sat down on the ground, leaning his back against the damp and dirty wall, and becoming a silhouette hidden in darkness. Next he reached into his inner coat pockets.

Suddenly there was a tiny, little flare of light that rested in his hand. He held the lighter gently and watched the flame struggle on its own. The light it poured out made the features of his face flicker in and out of sight.

"_Remember, remember, the fifth of November, with gunpowder, treason and plot."_

Two teenage girls wandered by, giggling hysterically. One glanced down the side street, saw him, and whispered furiously to her friend. They moved on.

He brought his face close to the light, and let the flare lick his fingers before he broke in the darkness and took something else out of his pocket. A sparkler.

Reviving the lighter, he brought the sparkler close until finally it lit up, setting up a huge crackling and cackling and crunching and crying. Sparks attacked the darkness in split-second battles which they always lost.

He watched the slight wisp of smoke that emerged twist slowly up to the sky, his very own little firework. In the background the sky was imprinted with a red line that exploded and disappeared, but his firework was better.

Like he had done with the lighter, he brought the sparkler close to his face, just far away enough to not get burnt. His face was shown in abrupt flashes that ran away.

Eventually he got up, and put the sparkler on the ground. The silhouette walked out of an alley.

The sparkler spat indignantly for a minute, fighting even as it died, and then it did die, but darkness didn't.

"_I see no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot."_

XXX

5th December 2010, 4.00 pm.

**Sherlock Holmes**

Crime. The word sent a delicious shiver down my spine, but for all the wrong reasons. I was always detecting crime, but what if I was the criminal? I always wondered, after all.

It's wrong. It's horrible. It's dark.

It's dangerous.

I mean, I wouldn't do it seriously, just… just to prove to myself I could do it. I'd reverse any damage straight afterwards. It would be a simple experiment, nothing would go wrong.

Well, come on, I'd been bored for _so _long. And I was sick of the crimes these everyday idiots do. I could do so much _better, _can't they see that? I can prove it.

No. No, it's wrong. I'm better than that. I had no reason to do it, except self-fulfilment. Think how disappointed everyone would be if they found out, think of the risk, think of the suffering it would cause.

What would John say?

I'll do it, but now I don't think I want to any more.

I wandered towards a park slightly out of the town shopping centres, slightly emptier. There was one family, a mother with a pram, boy and two little girls. In the middle was a slide and nearer to the hedges that hid a path was a sandpit.

I was on the path hidden by tall hedges and trees. I waited at the end, out of sight, trying not to think about what I was doing.

The mother rocked the pram and suddenly her mobile went off. She huffed in irritation, and answered it. Soon she was engrossed in conversation with a friend.

'I know! And I was like, why would you do that? But anyway, tell me about…'

Turning round, I saw an elderly couple walk by and out the park. As they passed I broke into a sweat. Could they see what I was doing? Did they suspect? I told myself to stop being so paranoid, and glanced at my watch before noticing that the little girl was playing alone in the sandpit, so close I could nearly touch her.

A hatred of life, of myself, of the innocent girl, filled me until I was burning with rage and I sent up a prayer, but not to God, or John, or anyone.

'Hey!' I muttered genially. The girl looked up but turned back to her sand.

'Hey!' I repeated, a little bit louder. The mother was still on the phone. This time the girl looked up and saw me. She had long straight blonde hair and green eyes. She wore a flowery dress with thick tights underneath and a big blue coat on top. I estimated her age to be three or four years old.

I beckoned and she got up, coming towards me. Kneeling down so I was her height, I asked her quietly:

'Now, you're a good girl, aren't you?' She stared at me closely and nodded. I smiled, 'Good, because I have a secret to tell you. Are you good at keeping secrets?'

She nodded again, and I was filled with self-loathing. I faked sudden doubt.

'No, I probably can't tell you, you'll just tell.' I sighed. The girl shook her head furiously and whispered quietly.

'I won't!'

'Promise?'

'I promise.'

'Ok, good. But the thing is, I can't tell you here. Someone might hear us, and we wouldn't want that, would we?' Again, she indicated no, and by now looked quite excited.

'If you follow me, I'll tell you somewhere else.' Suddenly, she looked doubtful, and glanced towards her oblivious mum, still talking on the phone.

'I'll bring you straight back, don't worry,' I reassured her, 'We won't be long.'

Finally she nodded and followed me as I straightened, taking her hand and leading her away. Something inside me felt like breaking myself up into little pieces, I was a loathsome, horrible person.

Not baring to hear my own thoughts any more, I struck up conversation as I led her through a car park.

'So, what's your name?'

'Katie,' she told me happily, suddenly much more open, 'What's yours?'

'Sher… Sam.'

Her hand felt sticky and I guessed she liked toffee. I was silently relieved that I had thought to bring sweets, and instantly repulsed by my relief.

We were only walking for five minutes, but it was already getting darker and it must have felt like a lifetime to her. Katie started to lag behind, and finally stopped altogether. I panicked momentarily.

'What is it, Katie?'

'Are we gonna be there soon?'

'Very soon, don't worry…. Have a toffee.' She perked up slightly but inside I was terrified. What if someone suspected? What if the mother had noticed by now? What if she had phoned the police?

I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to be alone. I just had to get rid of Katie. But how? I couldn't just leave her in this empty street, who knows what would happen to her?

Abruptly I began to pull Katie along more forcefully. She stumbled slightly as she tried to keep up, and I prayed she wouldn't fall over or do anything stupid.

Going down several streets with promises that I would tell her in a minute, I finally saw a policeman and was filled with a strange mixture of relief and paralysing fear. Struggling with myself like an inner civil war, I walked up to the policeman with the girl in tow. Lucky for me it wasn't a policeman I knew.

'This little girl, she got lost. She says she was in Aving Park.'

The man, a wizened wiry fellow, looked down at her and said thank you to me for bringing her and that he would return her right away. I left with her bewildered look as I handed her over embedded in my memory and the words I had said etched into my mind.

Never again, I promised, never again.

XXX

24th December 2010, 3.30 pm

I walked slowly through Hyde Park, feeling my hands go numb with cold. The wind battered my face and made my hair messy. I tightened my scarf and dug my hands deeper into my pockets. It was only half past three but dark and light were tangled in the sky.

In the background there was the faint tinkle of a Christmas Carol trickling out of an overly festive shop. People rushed by laden with last-minute shopping. As I watched them I realised for the fifth time with a prickling of resignation that I had nowhere to be this Christmas…. Oh well, I wasn't very festive. Really, I was fine.

As another wave of wind roared through the park, ruffling barren branches. I shivered, but couldn't find the energy to go somewhere warm. In fact, I got a strange savage pleasure from subjecting myself to this cold.

Instead, I sat down on a bench and, looking around for something to entertain me, I read the small memorial stating who this bench was dedicated to.

_Dedicated to James Morstan_

_Died aged 40 years._

Uninteresting. Irrelevant. I turned back around and observed people hurrying past.

Female. 45. Secretary. Recently divorced, with two children and a boyfriend.

Male. 64. Brother recently passed away, staying with his daughter for Christmas.

Male. 33. Unemployed. Has fiancée but not sure if they can get married due to financial status.

I watched them for some time.

To my consternation, a young lady came and sat next to me on the bench. Out of the corner of my eye, I deduced that she was 22, had a boyfriend, was staying with friends for Christmas, recently quit her job, and diagnosed with terminal cancer. She was bald. Irrelevant.

Dispassionately, I looked in front of me again because I could not find the will to leave. Too cold.

For several minutes we sat.

'Do you know how it feels to know your own, literal, deadline?' she suddenly spoke up. I didn't know what I was meant to do, so I ignored her. She carried on regardless.

'Do you know what it's like to try and appreciate everything you previously took for granted, all at once?' As she travelled along her monologue she sounded increasingly angry. I didn't understand really what she was angry at.

'Do you realise how you regret not doing all the things you could have, not grabbing each opportunity, not seeing the beauty everywhere? Of course, it's worse for the people with little or no warning, though. They have no chance to see things through the right pair of eyes. I'm the lucky one.' She stopped slightly.

'I… I have four months, they tell me, but cancer isn't what's killing me. What's killing me is how _blind _everyone is. I wish people could just clear their clouds and _look. _Is it so hard? Is it?' her voice was sharp and bitter now, and felt like salt in a wound.

What was I meant to say? I was confused by her emotion. Should I comfort her? But before I could make a decision she spoke again, in a different manner.

'I'm… I'm sorry, I've probably disconcerted you now, right? Sorry, don't worry, I was just… um, well, you know, speaking up…. You can go if you want.'

I left.

But as I walked along I couldn't help but think of her speech in my head.

_How blind everyone is._

I looked at the world and wondered what I should be seeing if I wasn't seeing it right. As I ambled along, I mindlessly pulled a flower out from a hedge (I was vaguely surprised to see it, as it was the heart of winter). Slowly I tore it apart and mused.

_Just clear the clouds and look._

I stared down at the crushed and broken flower, and got the feeling I knew exactly what she meant. At that moment the wind died down and I got a strange leapy feeling in my chest I hadn't felt for such a long time I'd forgotten what it felt like, what it was. The feeling broke out onto my face and suddenly I was smiling for the first time in months and months.

I felt a raindrop signal the beginning of a raining onslaught and suddenly I was laughing for the first time in eternity.

A balloon drifted up to the sky and out of sight.

-_This story is very much open to interpretation. I didn't plan half the things that happened in this story… it sort of carried itself. There's one more chapter, an epilogue. Take this story in any one you want. Love it, hate it, I don't mind. What I didn't realise till I finished this chapter is that's there's barely any mention of John. Again, not planned._


	9. Chapter 9

Dear John,

What am I supposed to say? I don't think it can all fit in one letter, but I don't want to miss anything out. Am I meant to apologise for everything I've done wrong? That would be apologising for being myself. Am I meant to say how much I miss you? Because that's just pining about could-have-beens. Argh, this is frustrating. I'm not a letter person. Once you write something in pen you can't go back neatly, so I'd better make sure every word counts.

Yes, that's right, I'm writing a letter. I don't do that very much. But apparently it's more personal than an email, and… I wanted to get it right.

Look, I've already messed some of it up. I've got to be more careful. In order to do that, I suppose I'd better get to the point. Also, I'm worried Mrs Hudson will come in in a minute and I don't want her to find me like this I mean, get sentimental again.

What I wanted to say is: thank you.

Thank you for showing me how to appreciate the small things in life, thank you for keeping me in line. Thank you for teaching me how to feel, how to love, how to hate. Thank you for getting angry at me for not caring, thank you for making me care, even if I hate the way you did it.

I've never wanted to thank someone before, I was that selfish.

When we first met, you don't know how close to the edge I was. I could already see the pattern of the waves below. I was on drugs. I smoked. I was, to put it bluntly, an idiot.

Then I met you, and I realised that friendship did exist. That people did care about me, that the whole world wasn't grey, that the night did have a morning. I realised I didn't have to be alone.

I hate you. I hate you for what you put me through when you left. I hate you for making me see that people don't just stay as long as you want them. I hated recognising that I could get hurt, even by friends.

But I still want to say thank you, because I deserved everything I felt.

Thank you for teaching me to love this terrible, beautiful world.

This is my goodbye – funerals are irrelevant.

And, having said that, I suppose that calls for the end of the letter.

Goodbye,

Sherlock Holmes.

0o0o0o0

-_That, I'm afraid, is it, folks. I hope very much you enjoyed it, I certainly enjoyed writing it. Thanks loads for all the reviews and favouriting/alerting! I really appreciate them. Right, now, if any of you want a oneshot relating to this story, a scene I haven't put in it, just PM me and I'll probably write it in a oneshot. And if you don't want a oneshot, that's good too. I've grow attached to this story. Anyway, for fear of me going on and on, this is most sadly: the end. _


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